I'm discovering during this first year of living abroad, that the holidays and how they are or aren't celebrated here will contribute to the most difficult part of my transition. Halloween has never been my favorite holiday, and it's not one that I think I'll miss celebrating, yet it feels somewhat odd for a year to pass without carving a pumpkin and handing out candy to eager trick-or-treaters. It's cool to see all the costumes that my friends and family back home donned for the holiday, but I can't say that I was overly nostalgic over missing out on the typical festivities. Maybe it's because costume parties are a little more of the norm here (well, in our circle of friends, anyway), or perhaps I simply don't appreciate the fun in dressing up in costume as much as I did when I was younger.

As a kid, I can't recall if I loved dressing up for Halloween, but I do remember that I loved to pretend I was a witch - specifically, the wicked witch of the West. Blame it on my mom's (and consequently, my) obsession with the Wizard of Oz, which I can still recite verbatim from beginning to end. I think I always felt like I resembled the green-faced, black-haired villain, who many of us now endearingly call Elphaba. I've never felt so comfortable in pretending to be someone else as I did when I was a witch. Reflecting on this now makes me wonder if there's an underlying psychological reason for that. Hmmm.

This Halloween, there wasn't a witch in sight. In fact, besides a few random youngsters dressed as zombies and dead clowns, hardly anyone seemed to notice it was Halloween night. (Did I just use the word youngsters?!) I didn't even see one packet of fun-size M&Ms, Skittles or Tootsie-pops. Instead of handing out candy to ghosts and ballerinas, Emily and I caught an early evening showing of Mamma Mia, which I happened to score free tickets to from Gui's dad. It was such a great movie. Normally, I cringe during musicals; everything's so happy and smiley and terribly contrived. Call me uncultured, but there's something that makes me feel awkward when I'm watching a movie and the cast bursts out in song and dance mid-sentence. But, this movie really changed my mind about all that. After the first episode of random song and dance, an overwhelming feeling of happiness came over me and I started singing along. I knew about half of the songs they sang and after the movie ended, Emily and I were talking about downloading the soundtrack (or digging up mom's old Abba albums). It's one of those movies that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and I highly recommend seeing it if you haven't.

We ended the night discussing the next un-celebrated holiday (Thanksgiving) over frozen margaritas and a delicious platter of fried, Tex-Mex finger-foods. Unlike Halloween, Thanksgiving is a holiday that, for me, I expect will be difficult to replicate or forget. The one year I spent Thanksgiving away from home, I found some comfort in familiar foods at the Texas Embassy, but the rest of the year still felt slightly askew. That November holiday is the one day when I can expect to see cousins, aunts, uncles and friends that I otherwise rarely see during the course of the year. My dad has nine siblings and my mom, eight, so seeing all of my extended family is nearly an impossible task. Thanksgiving is usually the day when my relatives near and far get together to reminisce over one crazy big meal. Not everyone shows up, but I find that each year I see someone I haven't seen in ages, and catching up on the time in between is what Thanksgiving is all about for me.

This year, although I don't expect to see any long-lost family members, I'm looking forward to celebrating the holiday like I never have before, and that makes me super excited. I feel like it's time for me to start new traditions with my family and friends here, all of who I'm grateful to know and spend time with. This year, Gui and I decided to host Thanksgiving dinner chez nous, so I'm a little worried about how everything will turn out (man, I hope I don't burn the turkey). But I guess new traditions have to start somewhere...

Anyone living in Paris will tell you that the métro is not just a mode of transportation, but an important destination in its own right, especially if you're into watching strange events unfold, listening to lovers suck face two inches from your ear and observing an area full of fifty-plus people staring into space in complete and utter silence. It's funny how small the world becomes when you find yourself riding the same line on a regular basis.

On the way back from seeing a mind-reader perform the other night, Gui and I found ourselves on the metro with a group of drunk and stupid teenagers who thought that writing on the doors and walls of the metro car with a bright green marker would make their parents proud. Too bad for them, they picked the first car to showcase their penmanship and found themselves the embarrassed recipients of a stern, public lecture by the observant driver. Today, while heading back home from school, I happened to jump on the exact same metro car to find that none of their graffiti had been removed. I was thinking that had the same incident played itself out in Texas, those kids would have been crying to their parents that evening while explaining why they got questioned and held by the local police. Then, they'd be spending their next Saturday scrubbing all the metro cars clean as punishment.

One of the worst things for me about taking the metro is dealing with daily solicitation of money from beggars, homeless people and buskers. I don't mind handing over a few centimes to someone when I have it, but what irks me the most are the people who repeatedly work the metros with perfectly polished nails, wearing shoes in better condition than mine. My mom taught me long ago that what a person does with their money is of no concern to you once you've made the decision to give it to them. Which I totally agree with and I guess explains why I avoid giving those people money in the first place.

Today, I found myself witness to the most amazing conversation I've ever heard between a serial-beggar and a woman riding the metro. The woman begging for money is obviously a pro. She's definitely one of those with nice jewelry and fancy shoes, and I see her on my line every. single. day. What I hate the most about her begging is how she asks for money - she carries a stack of at at least fifty small, yellow cards that have a perfectly-typed message on them, asking for money to feed her homeless family. Occasionally, she brings a small child with her, but I haven't seen her with him since the summer. She goes around and hands these cards to unsuspecting passengers, leaving them on empty seats next to people who've refused them. I've fallen victim to her sneaky, little card trick once, but never again after that.

When I first saw her little plan unfold, I thought she must be crazy to think people would give someone so young, capable and literate some of their hard-earned money in such a place that makes it rather difficult for one to truly starve. And, it's true, most everyone felt like they'd been had when she came around to take the cards back and ask for the money they'd promised her by default. But, there were still a few who dug into their pockets, not sure if they were now obliged to do so, and handed her a few coins along with her little yellow card.

Today, though, was funny. After she'd made her rounds and just as the train was entering a station, a boisterous, straight-talking woman (who'd perhaps felt like she'd been had) asked the begging woman if she was capable of speaking. The beggar bashfully answered her (in a very audible voice) in French - "Pas bien...euh..uh...je parle..." The woman (my new hero) replied by telling her that (and I have to paraphrase some of this because although I could completely understand the conversation [thank God], there's no way I could rewrite all the words in French) "bon, si tu peux ecrire et passer les petits papiers comme ça, tu peux travailler! [well, if you can write and pass these little papers around, then you can work!]" The beggar smiled like the woman was telling her a joke, and a guy standing up to get off at his stop let out a loud laugh which only provoked my hero more and made everyone else chuckle. The metro came to a stop, but the woman continued by telling her, "Don't go around asking these people for money on a piece of paper if you can talk. If you want money, go work like everyone else." The great thing about how she told her all of this is that it wasn't in a condescending sort of way, but like one of your friends telling you to stop being lazy, get off your arse and get a job. I love that. I could hear her still trying to convince her to stop her begging ways as she walked off the metro and the doors closed. It's rare to find someone who'll speak their mind so openly here (especially on the metro), so I'm just glad it happened on my line.

...and all I got was this lousy stamp.


Besides arguing with a 4-foot tall fellow étrangere for her audacious (although kind of brilliant) line-cutting (she came late, pulled out a number that had already been called from the garbage and told the lady at the window to see her now since her number had already passed - I don't think so, lady), not much drama went down at the préfecture today. Not that I'm complaining or anything. Now, it's just a countdown to my medical visit, and, if things go smoothly (yes, I'm being sarcastic), then I'll have my carte de sejour before we head to the States for the holidays.

I think I'll go celebrate my success today with a little "Friday Night Drinks"...and maybe some good ol' pub food!

I was stoked to finally find my request to appear for my medical exam to get my carte de sejour in the mailbox today. I'm not so excited about the actual exam, which has become the slightly-comical destiny of every new French resident, but I'm just relieved that, after three months, I'm finally taking the next step towards solidifying my residency here. My récépissé expires on the 31st of this month, and a couple of weeks ago, after voicing a little concern about the whereabouts of my application, Gui bypassed the préfecture and secured my medical appointment over the phone directly with ANAEM (the French immigration agency). In fact, Gui left them a message about it and they did what no other French bureaucratic agency has done before - they called him back in a very timely manner! They even took down my information, researched the progress of my file and called him back to inform him of the status. And, would you believe that they let me pick the date of the rendez-vous when we explained our plans to be out of town during the month?! I'll still have to go to the dreaded préfecture and wait "patiently" for however many hours tomorrow afternoon to extend my récépissé, but I'm really relieved that I'm headed in the right direction.

It's slightly ironic, however, that this letter came when it did. Today, my emotions have been bouncing around like a slinky. I'm really sick of blogging about my frustrations and homesickness when my life is, in all fairness, rather great. But, I think Paris is provoking me. It's kind of like that to the blessed people who call it home - just as you pass the Eiffel Tower, sipping on an espresso, croissant in-hand and life can't get any better, you get to your métro station and lookie there, it's closed - because someone died there this morning. (Which actually happened to me today, sans the croissant and espresso.) It's as if the city is reminding you that as great as life can appear to be, sometimes it sucks. What an amazing feeling it is to walk to school everyday and pass the Pantheon, to stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg in between classes and stop in for a French express before the bell rings, but when the dreary reality of la vie quotidienne resurfaces, the scales are once again tipped and life becomes just life once again. Today, I reminded myself at least three times each how much I love this city and how much I hate it. Yet, it's not really the city so much as it's my life living here.

It was never really any question when Gui and I married where we would start our lives as a married couple. My job situation, although relatively secure and stable wasn't ideal, and Gui needed to put his degree to work before it got too dusty and lost its appeal to employers. I knew I'd be in for an eventful and sometimes frustrating transition while I settled into being a real resident here, but I don't think I fully prepared myself for the personal challenges I've faced and have yet to face. For me, Paris and France in general never "stole my heart" or "talked to me" like it has for so many people who've made it here. It's certainly growing on me, and I seriously appreciate the beauty of such an historical place, but man, is it sometimes a frustrating place to be! I don't mind that I sometimes have to search high and low for things that bring me comfort, and I love that I've learned so many different techniques and ways of doing things that I once did so differently. I enjoy the diversity of the people, their varied traditions and often bizarre anecdotes. Yet, there's something that feels off-kilter about calling this place home. Almost interdit. I feel like a fraud, like someone who's living someone else's dream (except that in their dream, they didn't get to marry my husband), when I'd rather be sipping a margarita with the girls at happy hour after a grueling 10-hour day of work.

I think I'm coming to the realization that Paris might never be able to replace those people and places I love so much no matter how hard it tries; that as great as the moments I have here are, they would be even greater with those people to share them with. None of this diminishes the fact that I've had amazing times here with some of the most remarkable people who I expect to become lifelong friends. I guess I'm just materializing the recognition that my life here isn't going to be perfect because it will always lack those people and places that have made me the person I've become. Realizing that this makes me sound so much like my dad, I'm now starting to notice how perfectly I balance the traits of both of my parents. My mom is the free-spirited, care-free wanderer of life who lives for spontaneity, while my dad is the uber-traditionalist who champions dedication and planting roots as the fundamentals to living a good life. I guess it's no wonder I have such daily self-conflicts about being here. But having an on-again, off-again relationship with Paris is something I'm learning to live with and hoping to get better at. Even though I hate sometimes feeling so out of love with this place, I love my husband more than anything, and regardless of where he's at, that's where I want to be. Let's just hope he doesn't get the sudden urge to move to Russia - there's one language I could die happily before attempting to learn.

My sister would say that I'm "on the mend," but I'm still sick. And, I'm one of those annoying sick people who complains and gripes about my aches and pains as if that'll make them go away quicker. This isn't my first time getting the same awful fluish sickness in France. On my first trip to visit Guillaume here back when we were kids (ok, like two years ago), I came down with a more severe version of what I'm suffering these days. It almost resulted in postponing my flight home, but after a quick call to Gui's doctor-of-an-uncle, I managed to reduce my suffering by following a day's worth of homeopathic remedies. I quickly became a convert to homeopathy, having before always relied on alcohol-based syrups and drugs to knock me out long enough not to notice or complain about my symptoms.

What I find hardest about being sick in a different country is not finding those things that always make achy bones and crazy-painful sore throats a little bit easier to cope with. Like vegetable soup with alphabet pasta, saltines, bags of Celestial Seasonings throat lozenges, Vick's VapoRub, and my mom - especially, my mom. Am I too old to wish I had my mom around to take care of me while I'm sick? I hope not because I don't see that feeling changing anytime soon. I did scoop up a bottle of 7-up on my way home, not that there's any chance that it'll cure me, but it was always around when I was sick as a kid, so maybe it has some healing powers - even if they're only mental. And, although honey makes my throat scratchy, I've been adding it to my hot tea like mom always taught me to help sooth my burning throat.

The one thing that's making it easier to cope with everything is having my not-from-this-world husband by my side. Gui has been more amazing than I could ever be in taking good care of me. I seriously don't know what man-planet he's from, but he's definitely holding up to his commitment to love me during sickness, putting up with my whining and moaning, bringing home throat spray, fruit and juice and all the requisite sick-person food he can find. I'm taking notes so I can reciprocate the care he's given me when it's his turn to be the sicky (let's hope that's not anytime soon).

What sucks about getting sick this week is that it's the first week of my phonetics class - the one that starts at 8 am each morning - and, I'm pretty sure I'm off to a bad start with the prof having already missed the first two days. I'm not sure how the whole truancy thing works at La Sorbonne, but I hope I'm not required to give a doctor's note or anything. I did manage to make it to my daily grammar class today and didn't feel like I missed much by being gone one day. Midway through class, the Turkish girl next to me asked if I was okay, which made me think I must be looking like shiz. Unfortunately, the teacher didn't pick up on this and insisted on asking me to answer last night's homework (which I didn't cop out of with an excuse and still answered). But, then she thought it would be fun to give me an on-the-spot quiz to make an example out of my silly auxiliary-verb mistake (which I knew I'd made the moment I said it and then swiftly corrected myself), that resulted in a short lecture on the profound importance of memorizing these verbs. I wanted to walk out and go back home to my warm bed, but I stuck it out and hopefully tomorrow I'll be back on my game.

Reading through a new Twitter follower's past few tweets, I came across one that really sent my senses in a tizzy and started a chain reaction of thoughts about what little things I've totally forgotten about since I've left the US. Her tweet was simply this: "community Pumpkin Spice creamer in the office kitchen. My coffee is scrumptious! Totally made my morning!" Pumpkin spice creamer might seem like a silly thing to blog about, but besides making me verbally exclaim "YUUUM," it got me thinking about all the great things that come with the Thanksgiving season, and it even reminded me of what it is I miss the most about working.

Last weekend, at a party full of Americans (and a Canadian) the topic turned to Thanksgiving dinner. After listing off all of our favorite dishes - greenbean casserole, mom's stuffing, homemade pumpkin pie (my absolute favorite) - we got on the topic of eggnog. A few people have spotted the milky holiday beverage at various grocery stores around Paris, and someone verified the name in French to look for on the next trip to the market. I was never crazy about eggnog, and in fact usually only drink it when it's spiked, but somehow it seems to be more important on my list of holiday specialties than ever before. Talking about the drink conjures up memories of Christmas Eve finger-food dinners, holiday office parties, and winter dinner parties with friends. We have plans to replicate a perfectly American Thanksgiving dinner here this year, so I'm hoping all my seasonal cravings will be fulfilled.

As for that pumpkin spice creamer, I could actually see that in the community fridge of any one of my jobs of the past. My lovely friend (and old co-worker), Jen would totally bring that in to share with our department in celebration of the cooler temps or just to brighten everyone's day. She'd make her coffee at her desk in the miniature French press that was stashed in her office and come to the breakroom for a splash of creamer and an earful of the latest gossip. We'd compliment each other on our latest buys - her new kitten heels or my new pencil skirt - and talk about what's on the agenda for the coming week. That's the kind of work camaraderie that made working an often less-than-thrilling 9 to 5 job so worth it. And, there are those little things - like the pumpkin spice creamer that someone thought to share with the rest of the burned-out office - that seriously made life that much happier. Is it silly for me to be dreaming of artificially-flavored soy-milk when I can indulge in freshly-baked baguettes and tarts all day if I want? Perhaps. But, isn't the grass always greener?